The Ruin of Snow

by Lacy Sheridan

  As red as my anger. As red as his blood.

  I took in the sight, then joined my family.

  We spread as we parted from the others; Sarafine and Mother walked side-by-side, lost in quiet conversation I didn’t bother to listen to. Tulia linked an arm through mine, giving me another significant look.

  “Why don’t we take the opportunity to visit Father and Alaric?” she suggested in a tone that made it not a suggestion at all.

  I didn’t take orders from Tulia, but I nodded and walked with her to the Morningspell crypt, rising tall and proud by a frozen weeping willow that stood watch like a ghost. Wrought iron gates blocked the entrance, shielding covered stone steps and an arched doorway. On either side, tall stone pots held the sleeping remnants of amaryllis. Inside, light filtered through the circle of stained glass on the far wall—not the Lady, but a tree, with leaves stretching to the sky and roots spreading far and wide. The Morningspells themselves, always reaching higher and always attached to the dark, unclean tangle of our past.

  The crypt was at first lit only with a surreal, warped blue-and-green light, and then the candles along the walls ignited in a whispering woosh. A long-standing spell reacting to our entrance. Tulia crossed not to our entombed relatives, but to the table below the window, running her hand along the black cloth covering it. Four more candles, tall tapers in silver holders, flickered to life at her touch. Between them sat a mortar and pestle among a clutter of objects: offerings to the Lady or to Nalcai, the shunned witching god, an ancient book of our craft, a tiny dagger, and bottles of dried herbs. “Come help me,” she said.

  I stepped to the worktable beside her and uncapped the first bottle. Plenty of spells had been worked on this place over the centuries, more than I could ever find, but one had to be strengthened on a regular basis: a protection charm, to ward away those who would find our family’s secrets. I’d been taught it from a young age, brought with Mother to work it with her, and the motions came without thought. It didn’t really require two people, but we split the work anyway, each measuring out a share of the herbs. “The glamours seem to have worked,” Tulia commented.

  “Yes. I wasn’t worried.”

  “I wasn’t, either, but you can never be too careful. Has Mother said anything to you yet?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She knows?”

  “I’m sure she does.” There was no fooling Mother; it was pointless to try. But her reaction to news of Desmond’s death had been a strange little smile.

  “She can’t be happy.”

  I sprinkled caraway seeds into the bowl. “No, I don’t suppose she is.” I was close to eighteen—almost old enough to be engaged. Old enough that I should have been preparing for it. Now she would have to start from the beginning: finding me a worthy suitor. Putting us into the right families meant everything.

  Tulia had so many men vying for the chance to court her that Mother was happy to let her take her time in settling on one. I didn’t have an excuse. Desmond had been my best chance.

  My sister kept her eyes on her work, grinding the mixture into a powder, as she spoke. “We both know something is different about this kill, Neyva. What is it?”

  I forced my voice to stay steady, nonchalant. “He betrayed me. I killed him.”

  “You stabbed him.”

  “Yes, I did.” I accepted a share of the powder from her and dusted it along the walls.

  “Why?”

  “I told you, Tulia—”

  “No, I’m not asking why you killed him. Why stab him? Why not kill with a curse? It’s your specialty, those curse-poisons you love to use so much, and much easier. This glamouring and lying business can go so wrong.”

  I scattered a pinch of the powder across the ridges of the stone panels in the walls. I couldn’t find the words to answer her.

  I felt her eyes fix on me as she said, “You weren’t planning it, were you?”

  I hesitated. “No.”

  “How can you…decide to kill someone, Neyva?”

  “I was angry. Furious, and—” Heartbroken, my mind supplied for me. I choked on the word and finished with, “—I just did it. I trusted him, and paid the price. Learned my lesson. And now it’s over and done.”

  There was silence as we finished, and when the powder was gone Tulia paused at the door and watched me. I waited. “Do you remember,” she started, “the year Father and Alaric died?”

  “Enough.”

  But she remembered something I didn’t from the way she tilted her head. “We had a celebration for Alaric’s birthday. It was during the plague, not long before he caught it, so it wasn’t a public one—they were too worried about all the children—but we had one on the estate, just us. Sarafine had concocted some game for us to play and assigned all our roles. She was the queen, Alaric the king. You were a servant. And after some time of us ordering you about, making you do things you didn’t want to do, you suddenly…started yelling. You were so upset that someone had to come take you away.”

  “What are you trying to tell me, Tulia?”

  “I mean…” She paused as if to gather her thoughts, and then shook her head. “Are you ready for your nameday?”

  “Of course I am.” I’d been preparing for it all my life. Mother had been making plans since I’d been born. Both of my sisters had faced their eighteenth namedays without so much as a stumble, and I would be no different.

  Like every Morningspell woman before me.

  Tulia didn’t move her gaze. I busied myself with the magicked powder rather than look at her. “You know what it will involve.”

  I knew well. “And?”

  “And it’s not as simple as I think you believe.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Tulia, I’ve all but properly sworn to Her. The one difference will be receiving my full magic. You and Sarafine did it. Mother did it. It’s the way of things.”

  As every witch did on her eighteenth nameday, for centuries and centuries past, I would swear myself to Nalcai, give my heart to Her, and be gifted the full extent of my power in return. It would be the final night of my studies, and I’d be, by all laws of magic, a true witch.

  “That it is,” Tulia murmured.

  I had stopped walking at some point, the stone bowl clutched over my chest, and I forced one foot in front of the other again. It was merely my nameday, so why did the thought make my heart race? I looked at the bowl, to my pale fingers around it. Fingers that had been coated in Desmond’s blood, the product of my hurt and anger. Once I swore to Nalcai that would be gone. Never again—no heartbreak, no foolish trust. Only clarity.

  I tossed the last pinch of powder, turned on a heel, and set the bowl in its place on the table. The tall candlesticks vibrated with the force. “Mother will be waiting,” I said.

  Tulia returned hers and linked her arm with mine. “I hope all goes to plan, little sister.”

  “It always does.”

  Desmond’s tomb glared at me as we stepped into the chilly open air. Like the eyes of its stone hawks could burn marks between my shoulder blades. I pushed the tiny, creeping thread of doubt low.

  Things almost always went to plan.

  Five

  “Neyva.”

  I paused halfway through the parlor. Mother reclined on the cushioned window seat, a book in her lap and glass of wine in hand. I hadn’t noticed her when I’d entered—my head was too far away. That was a danger.

  I gave my mind a little mental shake to restore it and faced to her. “Yes?”

  She closed the heavy volume she’d been reading and set it on the seat in front of her. “Are you going out with your sisters?”

  “Yes. Sarafine asked us to help her pick linens for the wedding ball.” Shopping was the last thing I wanted to spend my day doing, but I had sisterly duties to attend to. If Sarafine wanted my opinion I would oblige her for today.

  “I see.” She sipped her wine, and I forced myself not to fidget with my dress. She’d say what she truly mea
nt when she was ready. But I couldn’t help the gnawing fear that she knew. She knew that I’d slipped when I’d killed Desmond, and I had a horrible feeling I’d been slipping ever since. “I’d like you to watch for any suitable young men you may come across. The season for balls won’t pick up again until after the holidays.”

  There it was. It wouldn’t do for me to go long without courting. “Yes, Mother.”

  “Desmond was a perfect choice. You would have done well in his family.” She swirled her wine, gaze cutting. “Such a shame.”

  I lowered my eyes, chest tight. Did she know? Of course she did. She had to. “Yes, Mother. A shame.” Never mind the image searing in my mind of them together. I swallowed and thrust it away. “May I ask a question, Mother?”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  It was a step out of bounds, and it could land me in deadly trouble, but I asked anyway. I needed to. “I’m afraid I don’t understand why you cast a spell to draw me to that room. To show me his true nature? Were you testing his loyalty to me?” It was the one explanation I could think of. And I supposed if he was going to stray better it be with her than with some girl who could jeopardize our arrangement. But the sting of it felt especially sharp.

  Mother smiled and stood. “Darling, he would have always deserted you for a better offer. It was his nature. You made a grave mistake.” She stepped closer and ran the back of her fingers along my cheek. Her skin was icy. “I saw it in your eyes when you looked at him. You needed to remember who you were, and who he was.”

  That was true. And now I remembered. “I won’t let it happen again,” I promised.

  Her hand collided with my cheek, rings like razors against my skin. My head snapped to the side and one hand flew up on instinct, but I caught myself and lowered it. I didn’t dare look away from the floor, corners of my eyes burning, cheek singing with pain.

  Her voice lowered, full of cold warning. “Should you ever feel the need to kill again you do so with my approval only. I will not have you throwing away the gifts I give you unless necessary. You could have been the ruin of this family. Is that understood?”

  I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “Yes, Mother.”

  “Now, go, and be sure to consider how you can make this right.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I didn’t give her the chance to repeat her dismissal; I walked out of the parlor, refusing to let my shoulders slump. Once the door was closed behind me, I touched my fingertips to my cheek and winced.

  She hadn’t struck me in years. I hadn’t made a mistake that deserved it. But I knew from experience she wouldn’t allow a lasting mark. A mirror hung in the hall and I crossed to it, tilting my head to inspect the red splotch and tracing the edges. With a few whispered words it faded from sight.

  The sting remained, to both my skin and my pride, but at least that could be hidden. No doubt my sisters would notice the little glamour, but nobody else would. I could deal with my sisters.

  I took a breath to ensure no trace of my conversation with Mother lingered on my face before I went to meet them. Both of my sisters were waiting by the carriage, chatting about the weather—the snow had stopped falling but blanketed the ground, and the sun was out just enough to warrant a walk along the shops—and stopped as I approached.

  “We’ve been waiting, Neyva,” Sarafine said, no trace of irritation in her voice, though her eyes were sharp and searching.

  The coachman opened the door, and we let Sarafine into the carriage first. “I’m sorry, I had to speak with Mother.”

  We all settled in, Tulia next to me and Sarafine across from us. She smoothed her skirt. “Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, just plans for my nameday.”

  Tulia glanced away from the window. “It’s only two days away.”

  Only two days. Then everything would be fixed.

  But would it?

  No, of course it would. I’d been shaken by Desmond, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. I was better than that. My nameday would put me right again.

  Sarafine smiled, but it was like a blade. “I remember mine. It was beautiful.”

  “It’s such a shame you couldn’t have seen either of ours,” Tulia said. “I tried to talk Mother into letting me watch Sarafine’s, so I could properly prepare, but of course she said no.”

  My insides twisted. I’d studied the ritual. Studied the texts on Nalcai and magic. I’d prepared as much as one possibly could, but I’d never seen it done. The first must be your own, tradition dictated, and no matter how much studying I did, I’d be going in blind. “And I suppose she forbade you from telling me anything.”

  Sarafine laughed. “Do you need us to?”

  I didn’t. Whatever happened, I could handle it. But the more I knew, the better. “Knowledge is power.”

  “That it is, sister,” was all she said.

  I watched out the window at the roads passing by as the conversation went to the wedding. Sarafine planned for a seamstress to come to the house after my nameday to work on our dresses. She intended for Tulia and me to accompany her during the ceremony, of course, and we needed to look our best. I agreed, but her words passed through me.

  Two days before my nameday. The doubts creeping into my head were simply nerves, cold feet. Perfectly normal. I was sure every witch had them, and it all turned out fine in the end. But they poked and poked at me.

  Nalcai was the reason we had magic and the god who held it. When we came of age and were prepared to handle the full power she granted her witches, we’d receive it from her. Without that we were merely students, shadows of what witches could truly do. All she asked for was our hearts and loyalty. It was a fair trade.

  I watched Sarafine as we exited the carriage and she directed us to the first shop. She had always been cold beneath the polished, polite surface. As good of an actress as anyone in my family. I could remember her frosty, insincere smiles even as a child. But had she gotten worse after she’d taken her full magic? I wasn’t sure. We certainly spoke less than we used to, though we’d never been close.

  A bell above the door rang as we entered, and a woman began fussing over Sarafine, asking about her wedding plans and offering to show us her finest options she’d be happy to sell us. Tulia smiled and thanked her when Sarafine did little more than remind the woman that she’d have no cheaply made linens for her wedding guests.

  Tulia had invariably been warmer than Sarafine or our mother. She smiled at servants and passersby on the street. She was like a light nobody was able to resist; she could soften the crankiest of people. Yes, she could be ruthless with the men who fancied her, but that was the way of witches. She’d always been kind—a killer as much as any of us, but kind—and her nameday hadn’t changed that.

  There was nothing for me to worry about, then. Giving myself to Nalcai wouldn’t change who I was, only give me peace. Peace from anger and hurt and disappointment. My magic would swallow them and keep them far, far from me, wrap my heart in stone and ice so nothing could break it.

  The library of the Morningspell estate was no less impressive than any other room, though I rarely entered it. I’d been raised to respect books, of course, but I’d never picked up the fierce passion for learning my father had possessed. What books I cared to read regularly I stored in my room, and I ventured here when in search of something different, which didn’t happen frequently. I didn’t feel the need for histories often, and few fictions interested me. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but pause and close my eyes, inhaling the smell of old paper and ink, of ancient knowledge and power.

  Most of the estate was open and cold, filled with crystal and silver and gold. The library, while huge, felt cozier: candlelight sent dancing shadows across the towering bookshelves, all dark wood to match the stone floors spread with rich rugs. Chairs and tables were placed strategically to allow for comfortable reading, and an upper-level balcony past the spiraling stairs gave a view of the whole room.

  I went there first, running o
ne hand along the sleek-carved bannister. There were less books up here, and I knew most of the books Mother had hidden from us as children were among them—her reason had been that certain topics were not suitable for children, even children like us—but she’d given us free reign of the library years earlier, and what I was looking for was far more likely to be on the upper level.

  If she wanted us to know the bare minimum about what it would mean to give ourselves to Nalcai, she wouldn’t allow a child to stumble across records of the ritual.

  The lit chandeliers above whispered as I skimmed the first set of shelves, tilting my head to read titles in a hundred different languages. Plenty I knew, others I could identify but not understand, but even more I had no hope of naming. They were organized impeccably; this section was histories of the Northern countries, sorted by country, era, and writer. I moved on.

  Records of the oldest noble families. Across from the shelves a heavy golden stand held a book of Morningspell records.

  Religious texts, so old their spines were cracked and their pages brittle and mostly transparent. I skimmed them, and a name caught my eye: Nalcai.

  She was rarely mentioned in religious texts beyond being one of the Lady’s daughters, shunned for her magic. I’d read every book of magic I could find here over the years. Except this one.

  I slid the heavy book from the shelf and cradled it against my chest as I sat at the nearest table. Dust drifted into the air as I opened it, running my fingers along the first page.

  The Life and Fall of Nalcai, Daughter of Our Blessed Lady, and a History of Her Cursed Witchcraft

  I knew the story: Nalcai had been born with the curse of magic, and rather than bury it as her mother had demanded, she’d embraced it. She’d rebelled against the Lady and been banished, withering and dying alone in the furthest corners of the world. Those who called witches abominations, insults to the Lady, sometimes said we were descendants of Nalcai herself, or our bloodlines blessed by her—a mark of shame, to them. I didn’t know if either was true, but I knew magic had come from somewhere, and, if religion was to be believed, Nalcai held the key to a witch’s power.